The Softer Side
by SweetEmotion89
Summary: Clint and Natasha - behind the scenes
1. Hotel Exhaustion

**Clint:**

Her eyes are tired but she needs to wind down with her Nook before bed. Her breathing eases and her hands slip as she falls asleep. The Nook bounces to the bed, A Clash of Swords glaring brightly in her face before fading to a dull glow then to a black screen.

Natasha is asleep, snoring gently, worn out, and Clint can't stop staring.

He leans over and pull the covers up, smoothing the blankets that halo around her, glancing down at the rather severe cut on her cheekbone.

Some henchman with a pocketknife who got lucky, well...as lucky as he could have gotten before one of Clint's arrows "snick'd" right into his heart.

Nobody messes with Clint's 'Tasha.

Clint settles in, an arm behind his head, and closes his eyes; not fully asleep, not fully awake - a watchful hawk.

**Natasha:**

She cracks an eye open when Clint's breathing becomes less ragged and she can hear his heartbeat slow to a resting rate.

Sue her: She's got killer instincts, hearing included.

As soon as her hawk's asleep, she settles into her side of the bed, facing the shitty motel window, away from Clint.

5...4...3...2...1...

An arm covers her and tugs her closer. She smiles.

That's the only way she knows he's asleep; he would never grab her if he wasn't.

Clint breathes in deeply as he slumbers and Natasha laces her fingers with his.

It's the only time they're allowed to be vulnerable with anyone, especially each other.

And when HYDRA henchmen burst through the door a few minutes later, it's like nothing happened.

But the next time they have an opportunity to split up, one will say "Just one room needed. Just one bed. Save on cost."

They both know they're better together than apart...whatever together means.


	2. Pizza Night

**Clint:**

Tuesday was always pizza night.

Natasha ordered; a large stuffed-crust Meat Lovers' for her, a small thin-crust veggie for Coulson, two large pepperonis for Bruce, and a medium thin-crust broccoli-covered one for Clint.

Bird's gotta eat.

Natasha would dig in crust-first.

"Angela Anaconda used to eat like that…" Clint would caution when Nat came up for air, sometime between her second and fifth piece. She would glare at him, cheese hanging from her mouth, and then she'd open up her full mouth to show him the food inside.

Clint would always chuckle and reach for another slice of what Natasha called "herbi-hurl pizza."

Coulson would smile down at his plate, cutting another small piece, always careful not to get any pizza sauce, cheese, or toppings on his suit.

Bruce would scarf his first pizza and be midway through his second before he'd sheepishly offer a slice to the others. They would always decline with their mouths full and Bruce would silently finish his pies.

Occasionally, Tony would snag a slice of Bruce's or Clint's pizzas – never Coulson's or Natasha's because Coulson's was sacred and small – "Peasant food," Tony called it – and Natasha was lethal enough without adding hungry to the mix. Steve would always ask before receiving and Thor would crash the party about once a month, forcing the entire tower to get most of Pizza Hut's carry-out orders.

But most of the time, it was just Phil, Nat, Clint, and Bruce.

And that's how they liked their days off.

The next day, Nat would slug Clint in the shoulder and moan to him how she shouldn't have eaten the entire pizza and wailing that he should have stopped her before spending the next two hours kicking ass at the S.H.I.E.L.D. gym.

Clint would grin, grab his quiver, and wink at Bruce in his lab, who would let out a soft, pepperoni-scented burp followed by a softer "Excuse me."

Around noon, Coulson would call down to Clint, Nat, and Bruce for their dinner orders.

Because Wednesday was always Chinese food night.


	3. Stakeout Downtime

Down time on stakeouts can be amazingly rewarding…or terribly unproductive.

Clint and Natasha get paid either way, so they choose to make the best of it.

…

For this particular assignment, Nat and Clint are stuck in yet another seedy motel room.

"Feel like Sam and Dean a little?" Clint grunts, grabbing Natasha's duffle from the backseat of the beat-up Cadillac she sweet-talked the salesperson into giving them for $1,000 less than he originally quoted. "Jesus, what you got in here?" Natasha turns to him and shrugs.

"Guns, ammo, throwing stars, nunchuks…couple knives…the usual."

"No salt? No Holy Water?"

"Phil's really got you hooked on Supernatural, doesn't he?" Clint shrugs.

"Dean's voice is cool…" he finishes lamely, embarrassment pinking his cheeks. Natasha rolls her eyes.

"Get inside, weirdo."

…

The TV barely works and offers minimal channels, so Nat and Clint play War with a deck of cards that looks like it has been through battle.

Well…it was in Budapest.

Natasha slams down a six of diamonds down and so does Clint. They grin and proceed to flip cards rapid-fire until Natasha finally flips over a king of hearts and Clint turns a mere two of clubs. Natasha lets out a squeal of delight and collects her cards, kicking her feet.

"Yes! Beat your ass! Fuck yeah!" Clint takes a sip of whiskey out of one of the chipped tumblers the motel offers, the ice slipping gently towards his face, hiding his smirk in the drink and rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Deal again."

Sometimes, it's War. Sometimes, it's Egyptian Ratscrew. Sometimes, it's poker. And every so often, it's Go Fish.

But, late at night, when the stakeouts are stale, when the channels are scarce, while the pizza grows cold and the cards start to fray, Clint and Nat are allowed to enjoy themselves.

At least until Coulson beeps in and alerts them to a break in the case.

Because after that, it's arrows and arms.

This is one war Natasha and Clint always win.


	4. Injured

Every so often, one of them comes back from a fight a little more than scratched and bruised, which means that the other has to be a caretaker.

In this instance, Natasha has a deep gash in her left arm and she's clenching her teeth to keep from crying out as Clint swiftly pushes a needle and thread in and out of her skin.

Clint whisks a small bottle of rubbing alcohol back and forth like a martini shaker, a cotton ball pressed to the open top, before sliding the cool, soaked swab across Tasha's wound.

She hisses. Clint flinches.

"Sorry, babe. We don't want it infected." Natasha nods and looks to her right, away from Clint, blinking quickly.

Clint sews silently, quickly, and presses medical tape to her skin, covering the angry slash mark completely. He bends down and presses his lips to it.

"Boo-boo all better?" he says, a husk in his voice. Natasha glares at him, exhaling a soft growl and covering the patch with her palm.

"Yes," she grinds out, "Thanks." Natasha pushes off the couch in the suite that S.H.I.E.L.D. has booked for them and tugs off her white tank top with one hand, tossing it to the floor. She unsnaps her bra, letting it fall to the floor, before undoing her jean shorts and letting them fall too. She walks into the small bathroom and shuts the door.

Clint hears the faint squeal as the dial turns and the water comes out strong, thunderous.

He swears that he hears soft crying, but he just turns up Iron Chef and concentrates on Bobby Flay's mad dash around Kitchen Stadium.

When Nat comes out ten minutes later, steam floats around her, two towels wrap around her, one covering her body, one siphoning the water from her hair. The patch has held and the skin around the jagged cut is already paler than it was before. Nat dresses quietly – a ratty blue shirt with a faded screenprint of Cap's shield on it and black cheer shorts – and climbs into bed next to Clint. She lays her head on Clint's chest, silently, a gentle apology for her behavior earlier with the rubbing alcohol, eyes never leaving the television. Her wet hair soaks his shirt, but he doesn't move.

"So, who's winning?" she ventures. Clint's voice rumbles through her.

"Flay's kicking this dude's ass," he says, his left arm going around her, careful not to jostle too much and accidentally hit her bandage. Clint rubs Natasha's forearm lightly, a sign of forgiveness.

They lay like this for a few minutes, breathing, letting their bodies relax.

"Think it will scar?" Nat says softly.

"It's pretty deep."

Nat frowns. "It better. This is a hell of a wound to go through just to heal up all nice and pretty."

Clint laughs and rolls his eyes. "I could have just let it fester, if you wanted."

Natasha props her chin up on Clint's chest hard, digging in, eliciting a gasp from him. "I'm glad you deigned to keep me from infection and out of commission."

Clint lifts her chin off his chest and kisses her forehead.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. would fall if you were out of commission." Natasha glances at him sardonically.

"Yeah, who would cover for yours and Phil's sudden absences all the damn time?" Clint blushes.

"Shut up." Natasha giggles as her phone chirps.

Text Message - Hawk's Boyf: Enjoying the suite?

"Speak of the devil…" Clint looks over her shoulder.

"Gah! Don't call him that!" He makes a wild grab for the phone, but Natasha is too quick, even with her injured shoulder, and rolls off the bed easily.

Text Message – Romanov: Affirmative. Thanks for the med supplies.

Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: Always prepared.

Text Message – Romanov: Like the good Boy Scout you are.

"Nat!" Clint yells as Natasha dashes into the bathroom and locks the door.

Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: To be fair, I at least made it to Life Scout.

Natasha giggles loudly and Clint pounds the door.

Text Message – Romanov: Well, then…

Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: Will you kindly tell Agent Barton to stop pounding on the door of the bathroom? We don't want to have a situation like last time.

"Oy! Your boyfriend wants to you to quit with the ruckus! You're gonna break the door!" Natasha yells. Clint gives the door one last thud with his fist before cursing under his breath.

Text Message – Romanov: Just so you know, that suite was attacked – that wasn't Clint's fault. He didn't know he had Mockingbird's battle staves…or that they were being tracked by HYDRA.

Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: A likely story…

Text Message – Hawk's Boyf: And change my name in your phone, please. 'Boyf' sounds like something Justin Bieber would make popular.

Natasha cackles before editing Coulson's name back to "Phil."

Text Message – Phil: Much better. Get some rest, Agent Romanov.

Text Message – Romanov: Night, Phil.

Natasha unlocks the bathroom door and opens it to find a sulking Clint on the bed, surrounded by what must be the room service they ordered two hours ago.

"Oh, thank God, bacon cheeseburgers!" Nat breathes, reaching for a plate piled with fries and a juicy burger. She scrambles around the plates, finding an open spot on the bed.

"He had to bring up Paris…" Clint said glumly, a wad of well-done cow in his mouth. Nat swallowed before patting his arm.

"He just wants to make sure we get more missions and he's not buried in paperwork." Clint glares at his burger before snarling another inhuman bite.

"Whatever." Natasha rolls her eyes and whips out her phone.

Text Message – Romanov: Tell him you're not mad at him. He's gonna asphyxiate on a cheeseburger.

No sooner does Nat send off the text then Clint's phone buzzes and a giddy smile lights up his face. Nat rolls her eyes again and takes another bite of her burger.

Sometimes being injured doesn't suck so bad.


	5. Texting

Sometimes, they aren't together.

This is where texting comes in handy.

BW: Gah, this mission is boresville.

Arrow Happy: Tell me about it. Phil has me tracking some jacked dude who think he's a god.

BW: Better than me. I'm pretending to work for Stark.

BW: He keeps hitting on me.

Arrow Happy: Coulson wouldn't let me shoot ):

BW: Poor baby. Stark grabbed my ass. Twice.

BW: And why are you using those dumb smileys? You're not a 15yo girl.

Arrow Happy: Bite me. I like them.

Arrow Happy: Speaking of girls…this mission has some pretty nice eye candy…smart, too…

Arrow Happy: For you…of course.

BW: Nah. I'll stick with Starkie's sweetling. HBIC and all…

Arrow Happy: Whatever. Just wanted to help. (;

BW: Ugh. Smileys.

*GROUP MESSAGE*

Coulson: Have you two completed your paperwork for today?

Romanoff: Da.

Barton: Yup.

Coulson: Good. Nat, flying your way.

Romanoff: Bully

BW: See? THAT'S how you do a smiley.

Arrow Happy: :-P


	6. Coney Island

Sometimes, they want to have fun!

…except for Clint…

"Nope. Not a chance," Clint declares, folding his arms over his chest.

"C'mon," Natasha wheedles over the roar of the crowd, "it'll be fun!"

Clint shakes his head.

"Not a Goddamn chance," he thunders.

Coulson shoots him a pleading look over his deep-fried Oreos.

"Please?"

"No! And why the hell are you still wearing a suit?"

Coulson shrugs.

"Habit," he mumbles, small bits of powdered sugar falling from his mouth and dotting his lapel.

Nat pouts a little, her lips pursing, forehead puckering.

"One. Just one."

Clint looks from Nat to Phil and back before taking his thumb and middle finger and squeezing his temples with a sigh.

"One. And then –"

Natasha squeals and Coulson jumps as she grabs both of their hands.

"YAY! Let's go!"

Natasha drags both agents behind her and rushes for The Cyclone. She clamors aboard and yanks the bar across her lap, bouncing a bit in her seat.

Coulson polishes off his last Oreo, licks his fingers, and follows suit.

Clint frowns as he steps in the small car and grimaces as he clicks the bar towards his waist.

"This is so unsafe," he murmurs.

Natasha whips around.

"Oh, shut up, Tantor. We're safe as kittens!"

Clint lets out a soft whine as the train jerks forward and shoots a pitiful look to Phil.

Natasha shakes her head.

"большой ребенок," she chides.

The first hill is the hardest on Clint's stomach.

The second…isn't so bad.

By the third, Clint starts to enjoy himself.

He even whoops.

Phil, however, having eaten one too many deep-fried Oreos, hurls violently just after everyone exits the train.

He barely makes it to the trash can.

Clint consoles him, purchases a ginger ale, and deposits a suddenly-green Phil onto a bench before looking at Nat.

"So," he begins sheepishly, "wanna go again?"


	7. The Comedown

And sometimes…they need each other.

For obvious reasons.

There's a night, long after New York, after Clint and Natasha get back from their "vacation," after everyone has gone under extensive psychoanalysis (except Stark, who claims he's fine and disappears with a full bottle of Jack Daniel's only to reappear with an empty one on a nightly basis), where Natasha is reading in her bed and hears the world's softest "fuck" above her. She sighs, closes her Nook case, and looks up at the vent.

"I've asked you not to do that."

A soft plink of glass on metal answers her.

"Jack or Jose?" she ventures. Clint snorts.

"Crown." Natasha sucks her teeth.

Phil's favorite. That's worse.

"C'mon down," she says gently, placing her Nook on the bedside table. The vent swings open, Clint catching it so it doesn't hit him on the way down. He lowers himself down legs first, forearms straining, ever the vigilant assassin.

He lands softly on Nat's bed, so softly, that the mattress doesn't even squeak in protest. Natasha looks at Clint, who grabs her leg and tugs it towards him. He lays his head on her thigh, arms snaking around the remainder of her leg.

"I had a bad dream," he mutters against her skin, stubble scraping.

Natasha plays with his hair.

"Sweetie, don't –"

"Phil died," Clint continues. "Phil died and I was under mind control." One small tear falls from his right eye, traveling down his nose to eventually rest on Nat's leg. "Phil died," he whispers," and I couldn't do anything to stop it."

Clint's voice starts to shake a bit and Natasha knows that there are only a few more second before Hawkeye becomes Clint, before all the facades, the masks, the walls come down.

"Phil died and I h-helped."

Clint looks up at Natasha, eyes wide with tears. "Nat," he whispers, "please tell me it was just a nightmare, please, please –" He fully falls apart, tears mixing with the fabric of both their shirts as Natasha yanks Clint to her and grips him as he sobs into her neck.

"Please, Nat, please tell me he's not really –"

The wail is muffled, by Natasha's shoulder and she rocks Clint a little as he calms.

Eventually, the shudders stop.

The tears cease.

Clint sniffles to compose himself before shivering.

Natasha smiles and pulls back the left side of the covers.

"In you get."

Clint shoots her a shadowy grin and slips silently between the sheets.

"Just for tonight, okay?" Natasha scolds, tugging her blankets up to her shoulders.

Clint nods.

"Tonight only."

And yet…at least once a week, Clint sneaks into Nat's room via the vents.

Or Natasha sneaks into Clint's room after everyone has gone to bed.

Because…sometimes…they need each other.


End file.
